


Leave Those Umbrellas At Home

by rohkeutta



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bearded Steve Rogers, Captain America Steve Rogers/Modern Bucky Barnes, Christmas, Damsels in Distress, Fluff and Humor, Happy Ending, Kissing, M/M, Mild Angst, Misunderstandings, Romantic Comedy, Self-Esteem Issues, Snow, Social disaster Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-19 19:12:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17007525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rohkeutta/pseuds/rohkeutta
Summary: Bucky watches the watery snow come down and thinks about it, his mood deflating steadily. He imagines Steve going home the next morning, sitting down at his desk and opening his Super-Secret Sexcapade Journal and writing Bucky’s name in next to a carefully-thought Preparation & Performance Grade.B+ for the effort to look nice naked, C- for being embarrassingly vanilla and wanting to do it face-to-face so he could scritch his fingers through Steve’s beard and hair. Not worth a repetition. Kinky Grade: F.Bucky’s being uncharitable and he knows it, but Hangry Barnes can be a sad sack of shit when he wants to.





	Leave Those Umbrellas At Home

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Just About Half-Past Ten](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15154454) by [rohkeutta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rohkeutta/pseuds/rohkeutta). 



> A sort of Christmas-y semi-sequel to Just About Half-Past Ten.  
> Big hug to Lena and Meg for test reading, and Gerry for a stellar beta. xx

It’s already dark when Bucky gets off the train and limps down 5th Avenue, dodging tourists and holiday shoppers. He’s hungry and tired after his 10-hour workday, and the absolute last thing he wants is to brave Midtown three days before Christmas.

But Mom had asked for a Muji aroma diffuser for Christmas, and as the only person in his family who works in Manhattan, the task had fallen onto Bucky. Because he’s an uncoordinated mess about anything that’s not work, he’d promptly forgotten about it until the last minute.

It’s overcast but dry when he walks into Muji, not a snowflake in sight. But when he gets out, a hundred and twenty bucks poorer and carrying a big paper bag, there’s suddenly _so much snow,_ to the delight of all the damn tourists who don’t have to throw themselves on the mercy of the MTA to get back to fucking Williamsburg.

It's warm weather snow: big, wet flakes that feel like being pummeled over and over with tiny dishrags. It's the exact kind of snow that will melt his paper bag in less than two minutes. He stands under the construction scaffolding perched over the sidewalk, weighing his options. He could suck it up, tuck the paper bag under his arm and see how it ends up if he hobbles two blocks to 6th Avenue to catch his train.

But he _likes_ the Muji paper bags, and they’re a really nice-looking option for holding discarded, rolled-up blueprints at work. So there's his dilemma: it’s been a while since he’s gotten a paper bag this big, and his old one is crinkly and starting to tear at the top.

Also, his fucking _hair._ It had taken him twenty-seven minutes to get it _just right_ that morning, and it’s already in mild disarray after him messing with it during the day, but he’d like to get home without looking like a heroine from a period romance, wandering on the moors in the rain and getting consumption as a reward.

Stupid, he thinks, stupid stupid stupid. He should’ve walked from work to the Soho store and then taken the M from Broadway-Lafayette; or at least gotten off the train earlier and gone to the Times Square store if he absolutely _had_ to come to Midtown. But no: it was chilly when he left work and his ankle was still sore from twisting it on the stairs yesterday, so he took the train uptown, and then he’d been so engrossed with his family group chat that he’d missed his stop.

Because of that it took him twelve damn blocks to reach the 5th Avenue Muji, and now his ankle is aching with a vengeance, it’s fucking _snowing,_ and all he wants is to get the fuck home and maybe have a good cry about how unfair the world is for people with bad short-term memory and unruly hair.

Abruptly, he misses Steve, turning up from out of nowhere with his umbrella and gorgeous beard.

The thing with Steve--

The thing with Steve is way less complicated than Bucky makes it in his head at night when he can't sleep and is feeling sorry for himself. The _thing with Steve_ is that there _is no thing:_ they had an embarrassing, wonderful meet-cute in early August, went on a couple of dates, had an amazing time, slept together once, and then Steve left for a blackout undercover mission and never called again.

He’d said that it was gonna be a long one, but didn’t know how long, and Bucky said _yeah that’s cool,_ and suddenly the fall is gone, it’s been four months, and still absolutely nothing.

For all Bucky knows, Steve could be back already and just blowing him off. It wouldn't be like Steve at all, but. Look. It's kind of hard to not feel self-conscious when a gorgeous guy disappears for four months barely a week after Bucky slept with him.

Bucky's not hideous, by any standard, but he's positively twinky compared to Steve - and besides, who knows what kind of kinky sex champion Captain America might be hiding under his Hot Neighborhood Plumber facade? He did seem to be enjoying himself when he was banging Bucky like a screen door, but maybe Bucky was just… alright?

Bucky watches the watery snow come down and thinks about it, his mood deflating steadily. He imagines Steve going home the next morning, sitting down at his desk and opening his Super-Secret Sexcapade Journal and writing Bucky’s name in next to a carefully-thought Preparation & Performance Grade.

B+ for the effort to look nice naked, C- for being embarrassingly vanilla and wanting to do it face-to-face so he could scritch his fingers through Steve’s beard and hair. Not worth a repetition. Kinky Grade: F.

Bucky’s being uncharitable and he knows it, but Hangry Barnes can be a sad sack of shit when he wants to. Steve had been a perfect gentleman on the morning after: he’d kissed Bucky good morning, hummed loudly in the shower, and ordered a fucking _pizza_ for breakfast because Bucky’s blood sugar was so low that he fainted when he got out of bed.

Steve had fussed over Bucky and watched him eat, read aloud the thirst tweets in the notifications of the official Captain America Twitter to cheer him up, and kissed him for fifteen minutes before finally making it out the door.

It had been a good morning.

But Steve’s gone, and Bucky is Absolutely Not Still Hung Up On Him, Shut Up. Except that he hasn’t gone on another date since Steve left, or re-installed Grindr, or stumbled upon more hot strangers with umbrellas. He blames work: he’s a busy, busy man and not at all clinging onto the hope that Steve might’ve wanted Bucky to wait for him after five goddamn dates and one nice lay.

Jesus Christ, he’s gotten full-on Hallmark.

Bucky sighs, folds the bag before tucking it carefully under his arm, flips the collar of his coat up and trudges out into the snowfall. It’s awful, the wet _slap-slap-slap_ of Weather BDSM against his cheeks, and as he shivers at the stoplight, he genuinely considers moving to Texas, leaving the tiring NYC gays behind, and finding himself a cowboy who only associates the word ‘raw’ with a good steak.

There are so many problems with that idea though, starting with the fact that the only meat Bucky generally wants in his mouth is ~~Steve’s~~ dick, and ending with _Texas, ugh._

The light changes and he limps off the sidewalk, careful with his feet because he’s not wearing snow-appropriate footwear and could do without actually spraining his ankle. People rush past him on both sides, ruthlessly fast in an effort to get out of the weather. Bucky wishes he could rush as usual too, not accustomed to being the one people weave around while muttering under their breath.

He’s just stepping off the street, when suddenly there’s a large, black umbrella shielding him from the snow, and a low, warm voice says next to him, “Hey, stranger.”

But when Bucky turns to look, someone shoulders past him on the other side, and he falters, his bad foot taking the brunt and noping the fuck out under him, making him slip. Bucky has the flashing realization that he’s gonna die on fucking 5th Avenue as he flails for balance, but against all expectations, he doesn’t fall over.

Instead, there’s a strong arm catching him by the waist, and _Steve’s_ face is suddenly very, _very_ close to his, and Bucky doesn’t know what the _fuck_ is _happening,_ his heart blaring like a startled accordion in his chest. Steve looks exactly the same as four months ago, except that he’s wearing a knitted cap and a windbreaker, and Bucky’s head spins, trying to take him in.

 _That’s it,_ he thinks hysterically, _the ghost of August past has come for me._

“Thanks, Scrooge,” he blurts out, because that’s him: a social disaster with nice manners.

Steve blinks, and then his mouth is softening into a smile, small and fond like he’s accepted that Bucky’s brain is like a business of ferrets, and still likes it. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, trying to hide his wince as he puts weight on his ankle, but Steve tightens his grip just slightly like he saw it anyway, steering Bucky carefully to the side to get out of the way. Bucky leans into him without shame, because Steve’s warm and strong and smells _heavenly,_ and Bucky’s just human and hasn’t had dinner yet.

“Are you hurt?” Steve asks as he turns to face Bucky, concern written all over his face. He doesn’t make a move to pull back his arm, and it makes Bucky’s dumb accordion-heart toot out a pitiful sound.

“It’s okay, I twisted my ankle yesterday,” Bucky assures, desperately trying to maintain some dignity. “When did you get back?”

“Three days ago,” Steve says, and Bucky can’t help the wince, then: three days, and not a peep to let Bucky know that he was still alive. God, Bucky’s Sex Grade must’ve been even worse than he thought.

But Steve’s face falls at Bucky’s flinch, and he swallows visibly, letting his arm drop off Bucky’s waist, and Bucky’s suddenly very cold, the chilly breeze worming its way between them.

Steve scratches his neck, and Bucky watches with confusion and fascination as a blush creeps up from under his beard. “I, uh, was on my way to yours, actually.”

“What?”

“Yeah.” Steve shrugs a little, shuffling on his feet. “I was gonna see if you were home and apologize for dropping you so hard when I had to leave for the mission.”

“Oh.” Bucky blinks rapidly, trying to wrap his head around it. Steve was gonna _come over_ and _apologize_ and Bucky’s in mother _fucking Midtown_ and it’s gonna take him half an hour to get back to Brooklyn, and--“But I’m not home.”

It makes Steve laugh; a small, surprised huff that curls in Bucky’s belly like hot chocolate. “I can see that. I would’ve called, but I--wanted it to be a surprise.” He lifts his arm to show a fancy, heavy-looking plastic bag dangling off the crook of his elbow. “I got you a, a thing. From Berlin.”

 _“Oh,”_ Bucky says, eyes widening, and somehow, dumbly, that expensive-looking angular bag makes everything even worse: Steve was gonna _come over_ as a _surprise_ and bring Bucky _gifts_ and _apologize,_ and Bucky’s ruined it all by slipping on 5th Avenue. To hide his distress, he blurts out the first thing he can think of. “Why are you on this side of the park? You’re making an unnecessary detour.”

“Sort of, yeah,” Steve agrees, and flushes even harder, looking sheepish. “I was gonna go to ROYCE to get you chocolates.”

Bucky’s poor, gay, Hallmark heart wasn’t made to handle this shit; Steve’s so fucking sweet and Bucky _like-_ likes him so much that he’s gonna _die,_ pulverized by feelings and gorgeous superheros in windbreakers. “Fuck,” he says in a strangled voice. “Do you think I’m mad at you? Because I’m not, I--I waited for you, um, to come back, or I hoped, I don’t know, I thought I was too vanilla for you.”

“What?” Steve’s eyes go big as saucers, and he puts his hand back onto Bucky’s hip, squeezing frantically. “Baby, no, where did you get that idea? I’m so sorry it took me so long, I didn’t--I wasn’t sure if you’d still be, well, available, but--”

 _“Fuck,”_ Bucky says with more emphasis, and flings himself into Steve’s arms, accidentally smacking him with the aroma diffuser.

Steve catches him easily by the waist, taking Bucky’s weight and lifting him off his feet like it’s nothing, and then they’re kissing in the snow at the corner of the Public Library, three days before Christmas, like Bucky’s some twunky Meg Ryan incarnate who finally got his rom-com ending. The umbrella is shielding them from the majority of prying eyes, and Bucky swears he can almost hear the goddamn chanson his good old heart is pumping out.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you while I was away,” Steve says as he sets Bucky back down, his eyes bright and sparkling with happiness. “I wasn’t sure if it was stupid because, well, we’d been seeing each other just for a few weeks, but--”

“If you’re stupid, then I’m stupid too,” Bucky interrupts a little breathlessly, cradling Steve’s face between his hands, and kisses him again and again. “Want to get those chocolates and come back to mine? I’m so fucking hungry that I can’t see straight.”

“You weren’t straight to begin with, Buck. But yeah. Yeah.” Steve beams at him and pecks him on the mouth, twice, thrice, and then it’s suddenly been five minutes more of just kissing on the sidewalk before they manage to detach.

“Hungry,” Bucky complains, his lips tingling, grinning like a loon, and Steve laughs, squeezing him harder. “Come on.”

Steve tucks the Muji bag under his umbrella-holding arm and Bucky under the other, says, “Atta boy,” like a dumbass, and they go looking for pralines.

***

Turns out that the ‘thing’ Steve brought for him means two big, beautiful coffee table books, one about urban green spaces and the other about concrete brutalism. Bucky stares down at them, touched and stunned by Steve’s thoughtfulness, and blurts out without looking up, “What are you doing for Christmas?”

“You, hopefully,” Steve says, stroking a big, warm meat shovel hand down Bucky’s spine, and leans in to tug him into a kiss that turns into a ten-minute makeout session.

“Jesus,” Bucky manages when Steve finally lets go. His whole face feels hot with happy embarrassment and arousal, and he pushes his head into Steve’s armpit to hide that he’s red as a fucking fire truck.

Steve laughs and pets him absently, fingers stroking down Bucky’s legs where they’re thrown over his lap, rubbing the gauze around his ankle, dipping under the hem of Bucky’s sweats to stroke over skin, making him shiver.

Steve holds him with ease, letting Bucky cool down, and it’s _good,_ it’s so good that Bucky would take the four unsure months again in a heartbeat if it meant getting this as a reward.

 _A+ for looking amazing naked,_ he imagines Steve writing in his diary about Bucky and their last date back in August. _A+ for wanting it face-to-face and petting my beard. A+ for making me think about that one time for the next four months, hoping for another._

_A+, A+, A+, will keep him if he lets me._

**Author's Note:**

> my tunglr dot com is [here](http://rohkeutta.tumblr.com/). i'm also on [twitter](https://twitter.com/badrohmance/).


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